


rubato

by indianchai



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: It's Not That Bad I Promise, M/M, Victor plays the piano, former but also not former?? it's complicated but you'll understand, former skater katsuki yuuri, musician au, oh also there is some mild angst, oh well, orchestra AU, vague injury au, yes another musician au when i should be writing fire on ice, yuri p is featured as yurio, yuuri plays the cello
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-09 22:31:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10423224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indianchai/pseuds/indianchai
Summary: Yuuri is a psychology major (who happens to play the cello) that moves to Detroit in his sophomore year of college to escape his ice skating past. Through his roommate Phichit, who is in their college’s orchestra, he encounters his university's infamous pianist– an overconfident senior named Victor who refuses to be an accompanist to anyone (until, that is, he hears Yuuri play).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fire on ice?? ? what's that lmao (jk jk)
> 
> another musician au I know I'm dumb but I hope you like it 
> 
> [here's my tumblr please love me](http://nikifirov.tumblr.com/)

Transferring colleges in sophomore year was terrifying regardless of personal circumstances, but what made it even worse was that Yuuri was entering what was sure to be prime ground for a culture shock– moving to Detroit from Japan was not the ideal choice, but it was his only way to plug out the uproar he had left in his home country’s national ice skating rink.

As his loading group was announced for his flight, Yuuri stood stoically and trailed a finger over the handle of his cello case before taking hold of it and trudging towards the boarding doors. He had been a figure skater foremost, but he had taken up the cello cavalierly as a child and hadn’t been able to let it go. Yuuri had no time for a social life between ice skating practice and his weekly cello lessons– it felt like the rest of his life was fitted into obscure, compartmentalized parts of his brain. It was good, in hindsight, because he now had something to fall back on after his ice skating career dissipated in front of his very eyes.

Yuuri didn’t know what he was thinking, trying a quad flip at nationals, and in the end, that jump was what had sunk his career.

It was harshly ironic– he had put his cello playing aside for his ice skating career merely six months before nationals, advised by Minako. It had been a difficult conversation.

“Will it be Katsuki Yuuri, setting his sights on the Grand Prix Final?” Minako had prodded his leg hard as they trained. “Or will it be Katsuki Yuuri, playing his first cello recital in Tokyo? The decision is yours.”

He had chosen the former. It had worked well initially –the calloused pads of his fingertips softening slightly– but then… he didn't like thinking about it anymore.

Or maybe, he wouldn't let himself remember. The mind was an excellent tool in repressing painful memories.

But somewhere in the stirrings of his subconscious, there were still faint recollections of what had occurred– piercing screams, a heart-shattering crack, the wet feeling of ice on his skin. Red. It had been his right knee.

_He remembered all too well._

 

So he had left as soon as he was able to, both knee and heart aching. He knew would never make it to Sochi’s Grand Prix in that state, and, as he looked back on it, there was no way that he would’ve qualified in the first place.

His family showed no signs of disappointment, but there was something hollow in the way that Minako hugged him for the last time at the airport.

Yuuri was ordered to be off the ice for six months. He turned back to the cello; he could use it to connect with people emotionally, and it wasn’t nearly as strenuous on the lower half of his body. Other than accidentally stabbing himself with his endpin, there was virtually no risk of getting hurt. The cello was safe– music was safe.

Secretly, he knew it wasn’t quite enough. He could almost feel blades under his feet, but his right knee ached when he got too nostalgic.

It was the only thing that kept him in the world of reality.

_The real world didn’t have quad flips in store for him._

 

He had to buy an extra plane ticket for his cello, which was as annoying as ever– especially when his cello got upgraded to first class, and he didn’t. After his final attempt at explaining to the befuddled flight attendant that “Vicchan Katsuki” was not a person, he sat back in his seat, exhausted. The stranger next to him, Minami, had graciously offered to switch spots with Yuuri’s cello, pupils widening in excitement when Yuuri agreed.

“I’ve never flown first class before,” Minami raised his arms to his chest and swayed, nearly hitting his head on the overhead bins.

Yuuri patted his cello. “Thank you.”

 _It’s just you and me, Vicchan,_ he thought.

Detroit was cold, but not uncomfortably so. After a long day of traveling, Yuuri welcomed the cool bandage effect that the wind was having on his knee.

When he finally arrived to the campus, turning his newly acquired dorm room key into the lock, the first thing he registered was an aggressive take of Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. It was jarring, the notes being rushed almost recklessly, and yet, it sounded so _alive._

A boy with rich brown skin was playing the violin, swaying slightly as he stared out of the window that was between the dorm’s beds.

Yuuri didn’t say anything, trying not to disturb the violinist’s practice. What gave him away was the loud thud his cello case made as he was wheeling it in.

The violinist stopped abruptly.

“Yuri, if this is you coming to complain about Nikiforov _one more time_ , I’m going to absolutely murder you for interrupting my practice,” the boy said without turning around.

“Hello,” Yuuri wasn’t sure how to respond to this. “I’m… your new roommate?”

The boy turned around. “Ah, you must be Yuuri! Don’t mind that last thing I said– that was for a different Yuri.” He placed his violin –an absolutely gorgeous mahogany color– gently onto his bed. He held out his hand for Yuuri to shake. “I’m Phichit!”

Yuuri shook his hand tentatively, not sure how to make conversation with such a jovial person.

“Yuuri, you play the cello?” Phichit examined the bright blue case, then he whistled, tracing one of the stickers plastered randomly on the case.“Japan’s top youth orchestra, hm? You _have_ to audition for our college’s orchestra. I made it in last year– we focus a lot on local and national competitions!”

“Ah, I’m sorry…” Yuuri lugged the case to his side of the room, giving it a soft shove to slide it under the bare bed. “I don’t play competitively anymore. I just play occasionally, you know. When it suits me.”

Noticing the way that Phichit’s excitement fizzled out ever so slightly, Yuuri backpedaled. “But I can come with you if you want? You know, just this once, to see how everything works.”

The undertones of melancholy drifted from Phichit’s face. “Of course! Our first meeting is next week! I’ll come get you from…” –his dark eyes flitted rapidly over Yuuri’s schedule– “cognitive psychology”.

“Thank you,” Yuuri said as he began to unpack.

“Need any help?” Phichit asked.

“Actually, yes…” Yuuri had been too uncomfortable to ask, but it seemed that Phichit knew instinctively. The thought made him smile.

They worked silently– at least, Yuuri did. Phichit seemed to be having a great time giving Yuuri a monologue about anything and everything.

“Hey, what’s this?” his roommate asked, tugging a big box loose from the depths of Yuuri’s bag.

“Oh,” Yuuri took the box and swung the top open, albeit hesitantly. “It’s nothing… these are my ice skates. I’m not a professional.” Yuuri bit back the word _anymore_. “I just skated when…”

“When it suited you?” Phichit recycled Yuuri’s words. “It seems to me like you have a lot of _casual_ hobbies.”

Yuuri felt his face grow warm. “I do.” He desperately wanted to evade a conversation about his skating. It was a part of his life that was over, and yet he couldn’t bear to part with his skates. He had stared at them for an hour before he had to go to the airport, hands trembling as he packed them into his already overflowing bag. What happened in Japan; it would never happen again. Yuuri made sure of that.

“Well,” Phichit took Yuuri’s skates and set them gingerly against Yuuri’s nightstand. “We’ll see if we can make one of them” – he reached over and patted Yuuri’s case– “full time.”

“Not likely,” Yuuri answered honestly.

Phichit grinned. “Don’t underestimate my powers.”

They unpack for a little while, and then Phichit somehow coerces Yuuri into taking a selfie with him.

 

**#newroommate @katsukiyuuri is the best, though I don’t see why he could ever choose psychology over music #violinmajorsarethebest :)**

 

The week passed quicker than Yuuri anticipated. He grew comfortable with his routine, studying a variety of subjects, some of which had nothing to do with his major, psychology. He loved psych because it looked deceptively simple, and yet there were always twists and turns in every unit he encountered. The particular psychology course he was taking –cognitive psychology– was the most difficult in the school, and yet even his professor, Mr. Feltsman, seemed to take to him.

“You’re doing well, Yuuri,” he muttered one day as his students were leaving. As soon as Mr. Feltsman was out of earshot, one of Yuuri’s classmates, Seung-gil Lee, congratulated him on having the rare Feltsman seal of approval.

“I swear, the only other person that Feltsman likes in this damn school is his prodigal nephew, Victor.”

“Victor?” Yuuri asked. “Victor who?”

“Did my ears deceive me, or did I hear you talking about Victor Nikiforov?” Phichit had somehow appeared at Yuri’s side when he wasn’t paying attention, his violin case slung casually on his back.

“Who’s he?” Yuuri asked.

Phichit gasped. “You seriously have no clue? And you’ve been here an entire week?”

“What’s so special about him?” Yuuri scratched the back of his neck. “Is he a celebrity or something?”

“Might as well be,” Seung-gil grumbled. “He can be a bit conceited sometimes.”

“Can someone just tell me who this Victor is?”

“He’s our school’s pianist. Our _only_ one, mind you, and yet he refuses to accompany anyone. Not one single piano accompaniment at this school; it’s unbelievable!”  
Yuuri scrunched his nose. “Why not?”

“Thinks the piano is too good for it,” Phichit guessed. “Or thinks that _he_ ’s too good for it.”

“Well, _is_ he any good?” Yuuri asked, and Seung-gil groaned.

“He’s _too_ good– that’s the problem.”

“So what does he do, if he doesn’t want to accompany anyone?”

Phichit answered this time. “He usually enters solo competitions, and sometimes he needs us for piano concertos– that’s why he’s technically part of our orchestra.”

“Yuuri, you’ll meet him soon enough,” Seung-gil added brightly.

“When?”

Phichit stopped abruptly, hands falling on his hips. “You couldn’t have forgotten! Why do you think I’m here instead of back at the dorms?”

Yuuri shrugged, though there was a faint memory tugging at the edges of his conscious, struggling to be known.

“We have our first orchestra meeting today, Yuuri! How could you forget?”

Yuuri flushed, putting a hand to his head. “Oh god,” he exclaimed. “That was _today_?”

“You’re not going to get out of this, Yuuri,” Phichit warned. “No one should be withheld from seeing my beautiful playing!”

The boy latched onto Yuuri’s arm, tugging him toward the dorm. “We have to run now because you don’t have your cello with you.”

“But I don’t even–”

“Wait here– I’ll go get it,” Phichit dumped his violin into Yuuri’s arms and zoomed into the dorm building at an unprecedented speed.

“–think I’m going to play,” Yuuri finished, talking to no one.

He sat down on the building’s marble steps resignedly, propping Phichit’s case up on the rail, rubbing small circles into his right knee. He hadn’t run this fast in a very long time.

Phichit was breathing hard as exited the double doors, Yuuri’s cello case precariously strapped onto his back.

“Phichit,” Yuuri heaved the cello off the quivering boy’s back, “you do realize this case has wheels?”

Phichit nearly falls over in response.

 

They didn’t head to the college’s much-too-large auditorium, as Yuuri had thought they would. Instead, they filed into the building next to it, the words “Performing Arts” engraved in gold letters into a section of the concrete sidewalk.

“This is where we usually practice,” Phichit explained. “The auditorium is usually booked by the drama students, and since we don’t _have_ to practice in there, we just leave them to it.”

The halls were gleaming, the white tiles murmuring as the wheels of Yuuri’s cello case passed over them.

He heard faint noises coming from each of the rooms they walked by, and the variety of it all caught him by surprise. He could hear some Dvořák, Beethoven, and Fauré, but he could also hear modern songs too– he caught the slightest bit of the twenty one pilots song ‘Heathens’ being played on the harp. It made him chuckle.

 

“Phichit, you won’t believe what the asshole did today!” A voice sounded out as they walked into a large room allotted for the day’s practice. Yuuri noticed that there was a rack of cellos propped up against the wall, and Phichit muttered a “whoops” in a vague apology for forgetting that Yuuri didn’t have to bring his instrument.

“Oi, Yuri, what piece did Nikiforov reject now?” Phichit tousled a blond boy’s hair good-naturedly, resulting in him getting a hard shove in the chest.

“Grieg. A violin sonata, can’t remember which one,” a tall man answered, coming up behind the blond Yuri, shaking with benign amusement.

Then, he turned. “I’m Otabek,” he was the first person to address Yuuri directly, holding out his hand while the blond seethed next to him. “I play the viola. You must be new?”

“Yuuri,” Yuuri took a hold of Otabek’s hand.

“What do you want?” Yuri snapped, gripping his violin so tight that Yuuri could almost believe that his fingerprints would leave permanent indents in the wood.

“No,” Yuuri explained. “I’m Yuuri too. Yuuri Katsuki. I transferred here for my sophomore year.”

“Oh _,_ an _older_ Yuuri?” Otabek laughed. “There can’t be two of you– it’ll get confusing.”

“I’ve got it!” Phichit made his way back into the conversation. “Since you’re older, you can stay Yuuri, and since Plisetsky here is our only freshman, he can be Yurio! It’s that sim–”

Phichit was interrupted when Yurio punched him on the arm so hard that Yuuri was surprised that he didn’t drop his violin.

“I was here first! Why me?” he hissed.

His question was going to be left unanswered, however, because the conductor –who Yuuri recognized as his multivariable calculus professor Mr. Thompson– stepped onto the podium. Students scrambled for seats in the arrangement, and Yuuri rushed to the back of the room, opting to sit and watch rather than partake in any playing.

“Okay if I sit here?” he asked a redhead who was setting up the rock stop for her bass. She turned and looked where he was pointing– it was directly behind her, effectively hiding him but also allowing him to observe.

“Well, it’s not _my_ spot on the wall so it might as well be yours.” She winked at him. “Shy, are you?”

“Something like that,” Yuuri smiled. “Thank you…?”

“Mila,” she answered his unspoken question. “Mila Babicheva. And you are?”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” he said as he settled himself in his newfound seat.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Mila said before she turned her attention to the front.

 

The Bruch Violin Concerto No. One was what they started with– difficult, and yet Yuuri could see the happiness exude from Phichit’s face as he realized that he could have a major solo. (Privately, Yuuri had wished that they were doing a piano concerto of some kind, just so he could meet that elusive pianist, Victor.)

The rehearsal itself was a blur– a cacophony of noises that could only be produced from months without practice and frankly horrendous sight-reading of new music. Still, Yuuri noted, they looked pleased with themselves, impulses and instincts taking over rational and technical playing. Even in this audible squalor, Yuuri could see why so many people vied for the opportunity to play with this orchestra. It was vivacious and Yuuri could _feel_ the music instead of hear it.

Yuuri’s fingers itched.

_He wanted to skate to this music, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t._

 

When they finally finished, a bubble that had been swelling in Yuuri’s chest burst, and the surrealness of it all seemed to dissipate along with the serious tone of the performers. Instantly, Phichit and Yurio –first and second chair respectively– were bickering and Otabek, sitting comfortably in the viola section, was looking on, his eyebrows raised. Seung-gil, who was sitting next to him, leaned over and whispered something in Otabek’s ear. They both laughed, eliciting dirty looks from both violinists.

“I’ll get that solo,” Yurio promised, and Phichit clamped a hand on his back.

“We’ll see about that, my Russian friend. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Yurio snorted. “I thought those were hamsters?”

“Touché.”

 

Phichit insisted on showing Yuuri the piece he was working on –the Paganini from before– and Yuuri looked on appreciatively, clapping whenever Phichit did a particularly good job with series of notes.

“I could do that better,” Yurio would say every few measures, but even he grew tired at a point, calling over Otabek and heading out.

Yuuri didn’t know what it was, but there was something heady about the practice room, so much so that it gave him a dull headache but something more excitable deep in his gut.

Phichit yawned as he packed his violin. “Want to start heading back?” he asked, mostly as a formality. “No class tomorrow, so we can watch The King and the Skater instead!”

Yuuri winced. He’d been shocked to find out that this was Phichit’s favorite movie, but then understood. The world had it against him, he thought resignedly. It was determined to add salt to Yuuri’s figure skating wound, and it knew how to do it well.

“Actually, you go ahead,” he found himself telling Phichit. “I want to stay for a little while– I’ll find my way back.”

“You sure?” Phichit sounded concerned but his eyes blinked lazily. “I could always stay.”

“No, you’re tired.” Yuuri said. “I can take care of myself, I promise.”

“If you insist…” Phichit looked around. Seung-gil was the last one left in the room, but he motioned to leave when Phichit stood up. “Turn off all the lights when you leave, alright?”

“I will,” Yuuri promised.

 

The room was strangely quiet as the pair left, the slow hum of the heating unit constant and heavy in Yuuri’s ears. Slowly, he wheeled over his cello near the closest chair, facing a barren wall.

Unpacking his cello felt routine, and before he had processed it, he was settling himself on the chair swaying slightly as he adjusted himself into a proper playing position.

He tried scales first, bristling initially as his cello was extremely out of tune. It was a problem that was easily solved, and then Yuuri took a deep breath and set his bow on the strings.

Yuuri was playing an old piece –a Fauré that used to help him sleep at night. Après un rêve, it was called– _After a dream._

It was a piano and cello piece, but Yuuri was used to playing by himself. He got lost in the notes, closing his eyes again and relishing the feeling of his fingers pressing roughly on the fingerboard, the inherent familiarity of the piece tugging at his heartstrings. He quickened his vibrato as the piece reached its peak, swaying from side to side as he heard the piano in his head.

It was over quicker than he expected– he had forgotten that the piece wasn’t as long as others. Yuuri was breathing hard from the exertion, and his right knee tingled. He leaned forward, shifting his cello to his left as he struggled to calm himself down, but the spell was broken, and the euphoria of forgetting about his knee had abruptly left him.

“That was _…_ ” Yuuri jumped as he heard a voice behind him. He turned and saw someone who couldn’t possibly be mortal. His silver hair was thin but smooth and soft-looking, and his features were chiseled, as if they were hand-crafted by a dexterous sculptor. But what made Yuuri feel like he had been drugged were the man’s eyes: the most beautiful blue that Yuuri had ever seen.

This figure was looking at him contemplatively, cocking his head to one side as if considering something.

Yuuri stood, grasping the neck of his cello with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you…”

This seemed to pull the man out of his thoughts. “Disturb…?” The very word sounded foreign on his tongue. “No, not at all… I…” He was having trouble deciding what to say, and the more Yuuri stared at him, the more aware he was of his mouth going dry.

“My name is Victor Nikiforov,” the man decided on what to say. “I am a pianist, and I want to accompany you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what happens next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am actually Alive and Writing? shook. here's the next chapter. i would recommend going back and reading the last one because I changed one small but important detail. enjoy!
> 
> [here's my tumblr yell at me about my slow ass updates](http://nikifirov.tumblr.com/)

Yuuri reacted impulsively– he placed his cello on the ground and he ran. He swerved past the man and burst out of the heavy double doors, head spinning uneasily. The night air was cool on his skin and that further encouraged him to move into a faster sprint, even though his leg was begging him to stop. It wasn’t an injury-induced pain, Yuuri noticed for the first time. It was more of a discomfort, a stretching of areas that were mostly idle for over a year.

He stopped eventually; he had to. The closest bench was nowhere in sight, so he sat on the ground, still vaguely damp.

 

_“I want to accompany you. I want to accompany you. I want to accompany you. I want–”_

 

“But what do _I_ want?” Yuuri thought aloud.

The empty air he spoke to didn’t answer back, continuing to travel past his face in a zephyr, but the sinking feeling that had settled itself at the base of his throat was still alarmingly there. He thought for a short moment. There were times when he was tempted to ditch everything and go back to ice skating, but then his knee would tingle.

 _“These complaints of yours resemble psychosomatic pains, Mr. Katsuki,”_ the last doctor had said. _“Your injury has healed itself, but your mind has not.”_

 

“I don’t know what you want. Tell me.”

Yuuri yelped.

The silver-haired boy was back, sitting cross-legged behind Yuuri with his arms perched delicately over his knees, his arms touching the dark fabric of his pants.

“I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said suddenly. “I’m Victor.”

“I know,” Yuuri breathed. “I’ve… I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Victor smiled. “All good things, I hope.”

Recollections of Seung-gil sulking flitted through Yuuri’s head. “Naturally,” Yuuri lied easily.

“So you–” they both began at once. Another awkward pause. Victor’s eyes widened, and then he laughed airily, his breath escaping his lungs and his shoulders shaking a little.

“You first,” he insisted.

“So you play the piano,” Yuuri said.

Victor shrugged. Then he stretched out on the ground, sinking into the grass, eyes skyward. “It’s been a while since I played anything, really. I’ve been in kind of… um… a rut?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Yuuri said. Noticing Victor’s not-so-subtle eyebrow raise at the comment stirred him to say a few more words. “I mean, I kind of get what you mean, about a rut.”

“Oh really?” Victor sat up. “Like with playing the cello?” He scrunched up his face, confused. “You didn’t sound out of practice to me.”

That was true– Yuuri had been playing nonstop since his shameful failure at the Nationals.

“Not… That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh?” Victor asked, vaguely interested. “What are you talking about, then?”

 _Figure skating._ “I…” Yuuri hesitated. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Oh, yes! My uncle tells me that all the time– we’re from Russia, you know?” Victor started speaking more, a mess of poorly slurred words that were the result of his unyielding enthusiasm. Yuuri didn’t know if Victor could sense that he wanted a change in subject or if he was really as scatterbrained and eccentric as people thought.

“Hey–” Yuuri interrupted suddenly. “Do you want to walk me home?”

“Home?” Victor scrunched his nose again. “You have an apartment here? It might be close to mine!”

“Well, no,” Yuuri explained. “I share a dorm with the concertmaster. You might know him– his name is Phichit.”

Victor hummed his recognition. “He’s a good violinist. Maybe a bit rash, sometimes. Reminds me of Zino Francescatti, but happier.”

Yuuri laughed as he got up to leave, stumbling a little. “I think you’re exactly right. I heard him play Paganini on my first day here, and I felt like his sheet music was edited to have, like, all staccatos.”

Victor snorted. Yuuri would have never believed an action so awkward could be so pretty.

They walked slowly, taking their time to enjoy wisps of moonlight filtering through the trees lining the pale gray walkways.

When they reached Yuuri’s building, they both stopped walking and contemplated each other for a moment.

“We do this a lot, don’t we?” Yuuri asked sheepishly.

“Do what?”

“Pause.”

Victor pondered this. “Don’t think of it as a pause– think of it as a rest. A rest in our sheet music.”

Yuuri’s eyes crinkled, pleased. “That’s a good take on it, Victor. I guess our compositions have similar measures, then?”

Victor returned the smile. “Definitely.”

Victor took a small step back, lingering but a subtle cue that their time together was over. Yuuri headed up the steps, noticing the faint silver gleam of the doors as they reflected the moonlight.

“Hey!”

Yuuri turned.

“You know my piece is entitled Victor Nikiforov but I don’t know yours.” Victor chuckled. “I should at least know the name of the piece I’ve contributed to?”

Yuuri’s laugh drifted over the quiet front lawn. “You could’ve just asked me my name, Victor.”

He pouted. “What fun would that be? It is a pianist’s job to be pretentious.”

“In that case, I can tell you that you’re an amazing pianist and I haven’t even heard you play.”

Victor held a hand over his heart, faking a posh accent. “You wound me so grievously,” he dropped to his knees dramatically, “may I have the honor of knowing your name– upon my deathbed?”

Yuuri grinned. “If you insist, it’s Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki.”

 

Phichit was anxious when Yuuri returned– when Yuuri turned the lock, he was fluttering about nervously, pacing the distance between their beds.

“Where have you been?” Phichit exclaimed as Yuuri walked in. “Do you know how late it is?”

“It’s fine, _mom_ , the sun set like half an hour ago.”

Phichit pursed his lips. “Still.”

They went to bed like they did every day– Yuuri got two glasses of water from the shared dorm kitchen and handed one to Phichit, who was sitting up in his bed, laptop haphazardly placed on his blanket, open to Twitter.

“Thanks, Yuuri,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Yuuri replied as he opened up a laptop of his own, opting to open Facebook instead, as he saw he had an influx of messages.

“Phichit,” he said aloud. “How many times do I have to tell you not to send me so much stuff throughout the day?”

“I can’t help it– you have to see some of this stuff!”

“Oh, so I _have_ to see” –Yuuri checked– “a confused bunny rabbit staring into a mirror.”

Phichit looked offended. “Of course!”

They were quiet again, Yuuri aimlessly browsing, when Phichit spoke again.

“Yuuri, you _have_ to see this. It’s trending all over the–”

“Phichit, as much as I appreciate when you send me animal videos, I–”

“No, Yuuri, it’s this guy at…” Phichit checked as he pulled out a headphone. “The Japanese Figure Skating Championships. He’s having a complete meltdown.”

Yuuri’s blood froze– the kind of chill that pulled his heart down to his stomach. “Phichit–”

“Do you know who he is? His name is Minami!” Phichit stared at his screen. “I kind of feel bad for him. He looks really upset.”

Phichit pulled his headphones out of the headphone jack and swiveled his laptop in Yuuri’s direction.

Minami’s shrill voice pierced the silent air of their dorm. “He’s– he’s really not competing? He’s actually gone? No… no, he wouldn’t do that! He wouldn’t just leave!” Minami turned to his coach. “Tell me he’s not gone. Please, I need to compete with him!” He sank to his knees on the rough carpet of the kiss-and-cry.

The video cut off abruptly, as Minami started speaking again, the desperate start of a sentence ending with a soft click as whoever was recording stopped.

Phichit took Yuuri’s silence as amazement. “Isn’t it crazy? I didn’t know figure skating was this intense.”

Yuuri laughed weakly, shut his laptop, and then slid it onto his nightstand. “You know, I think we should get a little more sleep than we usually do.”

Phichit pouted. “Why? The night is just start–” A faint _ding_ interrupted him. Phichit checked his phone. “Well, I guess we _are_ going to have to sleep early,” he plugged his phone into his charger, “because Victor Nikiforov just requested the orchestra for a morning rehearsal tomorrow.”

The lamp clicked a soft goodbye as Phichit clicked it off.

Yuuri woke up in a daze, vaguely registering the sound of a rapping on the window. He stood slowly, blinking hard, and pressed his palms on his nightstand, pushing himself forward to get a good look at what was making the noise.

When he saw the source, Yuuri went back to bed.

“What on earth could possibly make you look that spooked at” –Phichit checked his phone languidly– “6:03 in the morning?” Yuuri said nothing, so he got up to have a look for himself.

“Don’t tell me…” Phichit squinted in disbelief. “Is that _Victor Nikiforov_ waving at me right now?”

He opened the window.

“Hello!” Victor’s happy voiced warbled up to the third floor. “Is Yuuri there? I was hoping we could walk to rehearsal together!”

“Uh… _givemeasecond_.” Phichit shut the window hard and turned to Yuuri. “You have some explaining to do, and you better do it right now.”

Yuuri paled. “I met him last night. It was why I was so late.”

Phichit was stunned. “I… Oh, I have _so much_ to say about this– you have _no idea_ , but _God,_ Yuuri, you _have_ to go right now– the poor boy’s waiting for you… just… oh my _God_.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going, but we’re not having this conversation, Phichit, we’re just _not_.”

Phichit smirked. “We’ll see about that.” He opened the window. “He’s coming right now, Victor!”

Yuuri put his head in his hands.

 

Victor was sitting on the steps when Yuuri pushed the door open.

“You came!”

“I did.”

Victor rolled out a case from behind him. “You left your cello behind last night– I realized after you went inside. I went back to go get it but by the time I came back, your building was already on curfew. So it stayed with me for the night– I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, thank you,” Yuuri said, suddenly visualizing his case in some posh, modern living space. For some reason, it was hard for him to see Victor anywhere else.

“Shall we go?”

“Sure,” Yuuri said, gripping his case’s handle, noticing suddenly how clammy his palms were, sliding against the smooth plastic.

“So what did you do last night?” Victor asked cheerily.

“Uh, sleep?” Yuuri shrugged. “My roommate loves watching god-awful videos at the end of the night usually, but, you know, we have morning rehearsal.”

“Yes,” Victor smiled at him. “Because of me.”

“Speaking of which, what are we playing? A piano concerto, I’m guessing?”

Victor nodded.

“Which composer?”

“Ah, you wouldn’t have heard of any of his pieces.”

Yuuri was a little defensive. “I know I’m majoring in psychology, but I know a lot more than you think. Try me.”

Victor scratched the back of his head. “Regardless, I don’t think you’ll have heard of any of my concertos, seeing as they’ve never been played before.”

It took Yuuri a moment to understand, and then it clicked. “Oh… _oh._ I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you composed.”

“It’s alright, I wasn’t planning on having anyone find out until I decided to last night.”

“Why last ni–”

“Hey!” It was Yuri, angrily running his way towards them. “Why the fuck are you having a rehearsal this early in the morning, and _on top of that_ you haven’t told anyone about what we’re playing? What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Well,” Victor shrugged. “I didn’t not tell _anyone_.” He winked at Yuuri.

 

Their warm-up was quieter than Yuuri thought it would be, but that was probably because half of the orchestra wasn’t in attendance. They weren’t required to attend informal rehearsals like the ones for Victor, and because the message was sent out so late for a rehearsal so early, it was no wonder that many players had decided to skip.

This was so clear, in fact, that there were only two cellists in attendance.

Yuuri was sitting in the back of the room just like the night before, and he noticed that one of them whispered something in Phichit’s ear.

“Yuuri,” Phichit called him over. He didn’t say a word, but Yuuri understood: Phichit wanted him to play. The orchestra wanted him to play. “You can say no.”

“I…” his eyes went to Victor, who was busy playing scales. “Alright.”

He unpacked his cello and went to go sit behind first stand when Victor spoke, still not looking up from his piano, his hair untidily sweeping unceremoniously over his face.

“Yuuri,” he said. “This is a piano and cello concerto. If you wouldn’t mind, would you be my solo cellist?”

Yuuri’s mouth went dry. “I’m sure there are much more qualified cellists here–”

“We’re both more comfortable playing with the orchestra,” one of them said. “And we’re both freshmen, so it doesn’t feel right to play wi– play.” She didn’t finish her sentence, but Yuuri knew what she meant: _to play with Victor Nikiforov_. He didn’t blame her– she must’ve already heard of Victor Nikiforov’s infamous reputation.

“Uh, okay.” He got up and dragged his chair next to the piano, and Victor got up and got him a stand and sheet music.

“It’s not perfect, so please let me know what I could change. Honestly,” –Victor looked sheepish– “I don’t know too much about the cello but I tried to transpose it as best as I could. The orchestra’s parts are still the same, but I tried to transpose from violin–” he saw realization dawning on Yuuri’s face, so he stopped his sentence. “Uh, just let me know what I can change to make it easier on you.”

“This was meant to be violin and piano?”

Color rose high on Victor’s face, spilling over his cheekbones. “Yes, but I decided to change it.”

“To cello? When?”

Victor’s blush intensified. “Let’s just say I didn’t really sleep last night.”

“I…” Yuuri was at a loss for words.

“You know what,” Victor said hurriedly, “Let’s just sightread.”

“Okay.”

 

Yuuri turned to his sheet music. He looked at it for five seconds.

“Victor, I can’t play this.”

“Yuuri, believe in yourself. You can do it!”

“No, Victor, I mean that I _literally_ cannot play this. No cellist can play this. It’s impossible.”

“Oh.” Yuuri had never seen him like this, all flustered and nervous. “I’ll just… Phichit!”

Phichit was there in a second. “Hey, when are we starting?”

“That’s the thing– I have a few things I need to work out in the soloists’ sheet music so if you would be so kind as to take this” –he handed Phichit the stack of sheet music for the general orchestra– “and lead rehearsals today, I’ll take Yuuri for breakfast and we can sort this out.”

Phichit smiled too widely at Yuuri before answering. “Sure! Make sure to take him to River Vault. They have the best breakfast in Detroit.”

“You’re my savior, Phichit, thank you,” Victor replied.

 

The day was warmer now, the sun’s rays embedding themselves into the world around them.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Yuuri said.

“Yes, beautiful,” Victor said faintly.

“River Vault’s that restaurant down by the engineering buildings, right?”

“Yeah. I swear, their waffles are to die for? Have you been there?”

“No, I–” Yuuri looked down. “I used to be on a strict regimen because I gain weight so easily, but even now that I can eat pretty much whatever I want, it’s still pretty weird for me.”

“Why the strict diet? It’s not like you’re an athlete or anything, right?” Victor laughed.

“Right,” Yuuri said weakly.

 

The restaurant was full to the brim, mostly of engineering students cramming for some infamous test they were supposed to take that day. As they made their way through the crammed walkways, trying to find a place to sit, they saw a table that was empty save for one person.

“Otabek, hey, can we sit here?” Victor asked.

Otabek, who was looking at an engineering textbook, nodded deftly. He sat back, reaching for his espresso.

“You look way too calm for an engineering student today,” Victor remarked as he pulled out a chair for Yuuri. “Resigned yourself to failing this one? Many have.”

Otabek snorted. “More like actually studying on time and just doing a light review. I’m going to ace this one.”

“Good to hear,” Yuuri said as Victor went to go get them drinks.

Otabek turned. “You again? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Hopefully good things?” Yuuri laughed nervously.

“If you count Yuri cursing Victor out because he chose _you_ to be his soloist as “good”, then yes. I have heard good things about you.”

Yuuri flushed deeply. “I didn’t ask to be “chosen.” I’m not even a music major.”

“Precisely. That’s what kills him so much. You were still picked, even though you didn’t ask and you don’t even play professionally.” Otabek set his espresso down nonchalantly, as if he were talking about the weather. “It’s like one of our figure skaters being upstaged by, well, _you_ , someone who has no experience.”

Yuuri gulped. “I get it.”

 

Otabek left after a few minutes, and then Victor and Yuuri got to work. Yuuri started off with marking everything that presented itself as difficult for a cellist. There was something so powerful in it that he felt like he was needed, and that he had some use.

Victor asked a lot of questions. Yuuri knew that every pen stroke he made would be paired with one of Victor’s questions. Yuuri liked that about him– he was so willing to learn something he didn’t know much about.

A few hours passed, but it felt, to Yuuri, that time had stood still.

“We should head out,” Victor muttered, eyes still glued to the sheet music.

“We should,” Yuuri held the edge of Victor’s folder, not taking his eyes of the sheet music.

“A couple of more minutes?” he asked, drawing his hand away.

“My thoughts exactly,” Victor replied.

 

Looking back on it, Yuuri really wished that he had left. As Victor was going to put their plates away –they were getting kicked out because of some staff meeting that was to be held there– Yuuri bumped into someone who made his heart sink.

“Yuuri? Yuuri Katsuki?”

He had heard of Celestino– of course he had. He was the coach of the underdogs, the talent that was missed by others until they hit podium after podium. Yuuri had even met him once, introduced by his own coach.

“You’re mistaken, I–”

“I didn’t know you were coming here after Nationals? You didn’t call.”

“I don’t intend on–”

“Coach Celestino! I see you’re finally meeting Yuuri!”

Yuuri didn’t dare speak so Victor wouldn’t notice how petrified he was.

“Yuuri, this is Coach Celestino. He trains the figure skaters.”

Celestino was about to say something, but Yuuri cut him off, giving him a look. “Sir, it’s so nice to finally meet you. I’d love to stay and talk, but with the meeting and all, we’re sure you’re really busy.”

Thankfully, Celestino got the message. “It’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you soon, maybe?”

He started to walk past them, whispering “Call me if you want to skate” in Yuuri’s ear.

Victor scrunched his nose. “Usually he’s really chatty. Something’s off today. Hm.”

“It’s okay, Victor, let’s just go.”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri was breathing way too hard considering he only ran two miles, the morning sun beaming down on his back.

“You alright?” Phichit asked. He pulled out one of his headphones, slowing down a few feet in front of him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

In reality, he was not fine. He had woken up to the worst stomach cramps on the planet, chalking it up to the ridiculous amount of food he’d eaten with Victor the night before. Ever since they met at the River Vault, Victor always insisted on taking Yuuri out once every couple of weeks. The night before, he had decided to switch it up and take him on a picnic, but the sheer amount of food he had brought had clearly indicated to Yuuri that Victor had no clue what picnic food was. After all, it wasn’t supposed to be a five-course meal and the picnic basket was not supposed to be six separate ones.

Even though he was groggy, he still insisted on going on his five-mile run with Phichit on Saturday morning. Big mistake.

“Phichit,” he said, still kneeled over.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to puke or faint  if we don’t stop for five minutes. Maybe both.”

Through ringing ears, he could hear Phichit’s shoes getting closer. “Let’s take you to sit down.”

With his eyes shut, he allowed Phichit to drag him to the nearest building.

Another mistake.

The first thing that he registered was the drop in temperature. Then, the unmistakable sound of skates on ice, a sound so familiar that it felt like his heart was being squeezed so tightly that it might burst.

“Phichit,” he said, still not opening  “where have you taken me?”

“We’re at the school’s rink. It’s the nearest I could get you into. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s…” Yuuri took a deep breath. “It’s fine.”

Phichit helped him sit down, and he opened his eyes. The white sheen of the ice blinded him for a moment, and he almost chuckled. It was already painful to be here, even on his eyes.

“So you finally decided to show up, Yuuri?” Celestino asked as he stepped out of his office.

“I’m here by coincidence,” he responded.

“You’ve met?” Phichit asked.

“Briefly, in Japan.” Celestino said. “At natio–” He realized his mistake. “I happened to be there visiting Yuuri’s hometown,” he lied.

“Oh, that’s so cool! Yuuri,” he turned to him, “were you going to a figure skating event? I know that’s one of your hobbies.”

“ _Hobbies?_ ” Celestino asked incredulously. “I–”

“Yes,” Yuuri cut him off. “One of my hobbies. That’s what I was doing. I went to go see the nationals.”

“Must’ve been fun!” Phichit said excitedly.

“It… was.” Yuuri said slowly. “Anyway, I’m feeling better– why don’t we head out?”

“No, I have a better idea! Why don’t we skate? It’ll be so much fun!”

“I…” Yuuri was stuck. He couldn’t say that he didn’t know how to skate, and he couldn’t think of a reason to tell Phichit that he didn’t want to. “Okay. I’ll skate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we go. i hope to have the next chapter out this month but y'all know how bad i am at updating *coughsorryfireonicereaderscough*  
> i'm planning to do a lot more writing (forreal) so hopefully updates won't take this damn long.
> 
> thank you for reading, and [here's my tumblr please love me](http://nikifirov.tumblr.com/)
> 
> see you soon, hopefully  
> nia

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! I'll be updating foi before I add another chapter to this so please bear with me I love you guys
> 
> [here's my tumblr please love me](http://nikifirov.tumblr.com/)


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